


fucked up food, pairs nicely with fucked up hearts

by VerdantMoth



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cooking, Coping, Food Issues, Getting Together, Healing, M/M, food fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 14:02:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20116270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: “What’s that?” Clint asks.“Fuel,” Bucky grunts, ketchup smeared in the corner of his mouth.Clint snorts out a laugh. “No, that’s a $50 dollar bison burger that needs to have cooked about thirty more seconds.”





	fucked up food, pairs nicely with fucked up hearts

Clint thinks it comes as a shock to everyone, and he’s including himself in the grouping of _ everyone,_ that he’s the moron who figures out Bucky’s, sensitivity. 

He doesn’t mean to, because when does Clint ever mean to discover a thing like that? Mostly, Bucky’s just an idiot and for a group of well trained, highly specialized, enhanced and super powered freakshow world saving heros, the Avenger’s are surprisingly unobservant when not on mission.

Bucky is currently hunched over Tony’s table, skulking in the shadows at ass o’clock in the dark damn morning, quietly eating. 

“What’s that?” Clint asks. 

He flicks on a light and Bucky mostly manages not to hiss at it. “Fuel,” he grunts, ketchup smeared in the corner of his mouth. 

Clint walks around and holds out a napkin to him, which Bucky ignores in favor of the back of his human hand. He studies the mass in Bucky’s hands and snorts out a laugh. “No, that’s a $50 dollar bison burger that needs to have cooked about thirty more seconds.”

Clint has _ seen _ that look before. That strange wash of nausea and… something, of someone who didn’t know the worth of what they were putting into their mouth. Clint’s had a few noses broken over that look. Somehow he doesn’t think Bucky’s feeling quite the same feeling though. 

“Tony ain’t gonna care, man. You saw the stack in there. Just, slow down, maybe. Don’t choke on it.”

He leaves, because Bucky’s face is making him feel all kinds of “I tasted the expensive candies and now there’s three bruised eyes and a lot of split knuckles in this house.”

-

The thing about noticing something, is once you start, you can’t really stop. Which is why Clint suddenly finds himself watching the Winter Soldier eat. 

Bucky comes in late to meals. He studies what’s on everyone else’s plate, and then builds one to match. He eats, so fast it makes _ Clint _nauseated, and then he slips out. 

Usually before desert which is just a travesty. He rarely joins them at restaurants, if he can help it. Clint thinks he’s seen Bucky eat outside of the tower or safe house all of three times in the last eight months. 

That had been an experience. Clint doesn’t think Bucky had even looked at the menu, except to check the prices and order the cheapest thing he could get away ordering, without being obvious about. 

Naturally, Clint goes to Steve. “What’s Bucky got against tasting his food?”

Steve glances up from where he and Tony are “discussing” over schematics. “Uh, nothing?”

Tony looks up intrigued. “Is this about the Bison Burger Incident?”

Steve glances between them. “The what?”

Let it not be said that Tony Stark doesn’t have a comedic bone. “The incident where Sir Vents here startled Sir Broody while he inhaled a $50 bison patty like it was a $.50 Micky Burger.” Tony points a screwdriver and Clint. “Sir Vents was, to put it mildly, horrified to see Broody McBrooders _ not _ savor each bite like it was caviar after a month in the desert eating scorpion.”

Clint glares. “Scorpion is a delicacy in some places and who the actual fuck eats _ caviar _after a month in the desert?”

Tony shrugs. “Someone out of bison burgers I guess.”

Steve just sighs between them. “Oh. That food thing. I dunno. Bucky never had enough to eat growing up. You ate it while it was there or you didn’t eat. And then rations in the war,” he shrugs. “Weren’t exactly eating for the flavor.” Steve skips right over Hydra because no one really wants to explore that. “Plus there was an incident when he was younger. A uhm, miscommunication. To be honest I don’t know much about what happened except Bucky can’t eat tuna sandwiches without feelin’ ill.”

“Was tuna expensive? Before?” Clint asks. 

Steve furrows his brows. “I mean, anything that wasn’t grub-infested-rice was expensive for us. A scrawny sick kid and Romanian immigrants,” Steve gets that look in his eyes where a record scratches and everything is sun soaked and smoke hazy. “Food was fuel. You ate because you had to, not because it was fun or tasty.”

Clint nods, considering that. 

-

Bucky smokes. 

Clint blinks from his perch, and he thinks, _ I knew that. _But what he knew was that Sergeant James Barnes smoked. It’s weird seeing a menthol tucked between metal fingers and wafting smoke over Tony’s balcony. 

“You gonna stay there peepin’, Tommy boy, or you gonna join me for a smoke?” Bucky speaks slowly, lazily, but he holds out the cancer stick, eyes still on the rising sun. 

Clint jumps down, boots quiet against the ground. He hasn’t smoked since his circus days, but it’s easy to pick the rhythm back up. “Shit, this is nasty Buck. Couldn’t spring for something a little better?”

Bucky side eyes him, and snatches it back. “Spring for your own shit, fly boy.” 

Clint rolls his eyes, occasionally stealing it back. When the things just a nub, Bucky snuffing it out against the bottom of his boot, Clint says, “Don’t think Tony really wants us smoking out here.”

Bucky gives him a look that makes Clint glad lazer eyes weren’t on the hydra menus and quips, “Don’t think it much matters now.” 

Clint grins at him, smacks his ass just to watch him jump, and says, “That’s why I let you enjoy it before I told you. C’mon. We’re making breakfast for the others.”

He leaves before Bucky can argue. 

-

“How the hell did you and Steve not starve?” Clint demands, watching _ runny fucking eggs _ go up in smoke. 

Bucky shrugs. “Steve was good with the gals, could get us meals at any dame’s place without so much as batting those lashes.”

Clint looks at the ceiling and prays. Then he hands Bucky a knife. “Don’t stab me. Cut bread.” Certainly Bucky can’t mangle _ that _job. 

Clint pours liquid, smoking, eggs into the trash, then wonders if maybe they shouldn’t have gone down the drain. “So, the trick is, just a little bit of milk. Makes them fluffy,” he says quietly. “Then use a fork and just…” he rattles the fork around until there’s bubbles in the mixture. Then he adds generous sprinkles of salt, pepper, and cayenne. “Butter should already be warm but you don’t want that bubbling. That’s how you end up with the brown bits.” Clint dumps the raw egg into the pan and lets it sit for a moment, then grabs a handful of shredded cheese and adds that. He studies it for a moment, then adds two more handfuls of cheese. 

Bucky makes a noise as Clint uses a spatula to break the egg and mix in the cheese. “What kinda cheese was that?”

Clint glances at him, then at the lumps of bread before him. “Dunno. Why?”

“It smells fancy,” Bucky hedges. 

“Probably is,” Clint tells him. 

“Should you have,” Bucky begins. He pauses. “Maybe you shouldn’t use so much next time.” He’s blushing, red peeking from the collar of his dark tee and up his neck, over his nose. 

Clint waves a hand. “It’s fine. Not everything in that fridge is overpriced nonsense. Plus a lot of it is bought on sale. Which usually means it needs to be eaten quickly.” That’s a stretch of the truth. 

Bucky doesn’t look convinced, but he watches Clint work and then he gently nudges him aside and mimics the motion. “Quick study,” Clint says, approval lacing his voice. 

He gets the smallest twitch of beard that has to be a hidden smile. Clint busies himself trying to butter the bread-chunks, then he throws them on a tray and shoves them in the oven. “Bacon,” he announces. 

“Hmm?” Bucky says, intense focus trained on the eggs. 

“Trust me.” Clint rummages in the fridge until he has three pounds of thick sliced hickory bacon. He waves them at Bucky, looks at the packages, then grabs one more. “Don’t start, Barnes. Thor and Steve can eat one pack a piece.”

Bucky raises his hands. 

“Watch your eggs, but also, look for a circular tray about yay big. Should have a moat surrounding ridges.”

It’s not the best description of what Clint’s looking for but Bucky finds it easily enough. “Don’t you ever admit this trick to the others,” Clint warns, finger to his lips. He carefully lays the bacon out, covers it in paper towels, then sticks it in a microwave the size of an oven. When it goes off, Clint pulls it out, peels off the paper and test a piece. He sticks it back in for another thirty seconds, then drains the grease, dabs it with a clean paper towel, and piles it onto a plate. He winks at Bucky, takes the bread out of the oven, and dumps the eggs into a bowl. 

“Friday, yell for breakfast.”

Friday doesn’t quite sigh, but the breakfast chime rings out. 

-

The Tower residence file in pretty quickly, in various states of awake and starving. “Ah!” Clint says smacking Tony’s wrist. “Cooks first.” 

He hands Bucky a plate, and the man with the metal arm looks entirely unsure of what to do. Clint waves a hand at him, and Bucky shuffles awkwardly forward. He puts tiny amounts of food on his plate, so Clint hipchecks him and piles more. Bucky looks…

“I didn’t know you could cook, Sasha,” Natasha says as she loads her own plate. Virtues of being a lady, and all.

“Can’t,” Bucky grunts. Clint studies the way he sits, elbows curled around his plate, hand shoveling food in like he’s afraid. He feels Tasha’s glare, and he ducks his own head. 

“Barton,” she says slowly, dangerously. “I didn’t know _ you _ could cook.” 

Clint takes a huge bite of eggs, choking on it.

“I’m going to murder you,” she hisses. But she doesn’t do it there. Instead she snatches the salt out of Sam’s hand and pours too much on her eggs. “All those damn missions-”

“You never asked!” Clint finally defends. 

After that, it’s mostly cutlery scraping the dishes, salt and pepper being passed around. Bucky’s the only one who never reaches for them.

Clint says, “Noses for dishe duty.” 

He’s not surprised Bucky’s the first one with his finger to his nose. Then again, soap and water probably aren’t the best for metal fingers and wrists. He’s so distracted by Bucky’s gleaming hand, he _ forgets _ noses.

Bucky’s beard twitches as he stands up. “Have fun, Barton,” he says softly. 

-

It’s a little bit of a game, after that. One Clint sort of lets Tony in on, if only because it’s Tony’s fridge. Tony’s money. 

It’s extremely difficult to pin a ghost down, so Clint takes to hanging out above the kitchen, waiting for him. 

“Watch this,” he says, landing in a crouch beside Bucky. Bucky jerks hard, milk sloshing at his feet and Clint wrinkles his nose. “Milk? Are you 12?” 

“Calcium,” Bucky grunts. 

Clint tries his best to mimic the dead stare he gets, but he’s pretty sure he fails. “Cheese has calcium. Yogurt has calcium. Ice cream, delicious, sweat, sometimes full of chocolate and peanut butter ice cream, has calcium. Milk is the absolute worst way to obtain calcium.” Clint says.

Bucky snorts. “Calcium pills are probably the worst way, actually.” 

Clint ignores him and stomps towards the fridge. “The other’s went out. I take it you weren’t interested?”

Bucky shrugs. “Surprised you didn’t go.” 

“I slept through the text, didn’t see it ‘till I woke up just now,” Clint lies. 

Bucky doesn’t buy it. “Sleepin’ in the vents now, are you? Pretty sure Tony can spring for a nice hallway. Maybe give you some old shirts to sleep on.”

Clint punches his shoulder, then opens the fridge. “What’s Tony got hiding out in here today,” he hums. He grabs mushrooms, wine, artichoke hearts, chicken, and six other vegetables, only one of which he even vaguely recognizes. “Let’s experiment,” he says grinning. 

Bucky eyes the spread and says, “I think Romanov might’ve been onto something about you not actually knowin’ how to cook.”

Clint just lifts a shoulder. “Spent several summers on a farm. If it makes noise or shoots out of the ground, I can mostly do something with it. Now shut up and chop.” He pushes the mushrooms towards Bucky and watches, frowning. 

Bucky glances at him. “What, Barton.” 

“Mm?” 

“Why are you staring at me?”

“Just trying to figure out how an assassin, who works with knives on occasion, ends up _ so bad _ and slicing and dicing a little bit of fungi,” Clint says casually. 

Bucky stiffens, just for a moment, just long enough that Clint thinks he’s really messed up. Then he says, “Sorry. I didn’t really focus on practicing my form when I was trying not to be dead.” 

Which, fair. “Let me show you,” Clint says softly. He steps into Bucky’s space, gives him plenty of time to shove him away. Bucky doesn’t, so Clint carefully places his hand over Bucky’s, secretly relieved he cuts with his human hand for this project. 

He’s not sure he could behave if he had to curl his fingers around the knuckle of the metal hand. 

He guides Bucky carefully through the cuts. He doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t need to. Bucky figures it out, how to make them even. 

“Bite sizes,” Clint finally says, breaking the silence. “Cut things evenly, they cook evenly.”

Bucky nods, leans back a little and Clint had been aware they were close, but not _ that _ close, and he stands very still, hoping that Bucky can’t feel… certain things. 

“Okay,” he says too loud, stepping back and clapping his hands together. “Chicken.” 

Bucky eyes him curiously, but he doesn’t say anything. He watches as Clint shows him how to cut around the tendons, how to make chunks. 

As far as experiments go, Clint thinks they could’ve used more wine and less squash, but it’s a pretty tasty dish. “You should make this for the others,” Bucky tells him.

They’re sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, bowls in their laps. Bucky’s is empty and Clint is definitely preening. “I should?”

Bucky knocks his shoulder into Clint’s. “Best dish I’ve had in awhile,” Bucky admits quietly. 

“No,” Clint disagrees. “It’s just the first one you’ve taken the time to appreciate.”

He doesn’t feel guilty for saying it, when Bucky stands up and storms out. Clint cleans the kitchen slowly. He’s not sorry, because it was true, and someone needed to say it.  
-

“Tell me the story of the tuna,” Clint asks quietly. 

He and Bucky have been officially put into the meal-time roster, now that Barton’s secret is out. Tonight, they’re making Clint’s version of sloppy joes, which mostly means the same canned meat everyone uses with three different kinds of peppers and half of Tony’s imported spice rack.

“How do you know about that?” Bucky demands, hands stilling as he stirs the pot. 

“It’s the one time you don’t make any appearance at all, instead of just skulking in late and leaving early,” Clint lies. Horribly.

“Fuckin’ Rogers,” Bucky says. But he’s standing with his head bowed and his shoulder’s tense. 

Clint gently pushes him aside him aside and takes the pot ofrom the burner. “Turn the potato wedges in the oven. The back gets hotter than the front.” 

Bucky obeys, wordlessly. 

“You don’t have to tell me the story, Buck,” Clint says gently. “But it might help.” 

“Help what?” Bucky asks, slamming the tray back into the oven. 

“Dunno, you’re the one with issues,” Clint tells him.

He checks the pot with the collards, because who ever said a meal had to make sense to be good.

“I’m sure Rogers told you that anything that wasn’t just meally rice was kind of pricey for us,” Bucky finally says quietly. 

Clint nods. He takes rolls out of the package and slathers them in garlicy butter, popping them in the oven too. “Might’ve said a thing or two about it.” 

“Once, my ma somehow managed to afford tuna and peanut butter,” Bucky says, in stuttering false-starts. “Me an’ Becca, we didn’t-” he twitches a little, like he’s afraid. “It was before we really got how pricey food was. Before we recognized hunger.” He stirs the meat, and it really doesn’t need it anymore, but Clint lets him, because keeping busy keeps him calm. “Got home from school once, and Ma says, ‘There’s a sandwich on the counter for you guys to share.’ And we go in, and there’s this thick, crusty bread and _ tuna_.” Bucky almost smiles. “I don’t think we even really knew what Tuna was. And ma had been so sick lately, that we were kind of surprised she had the strength to mix it with the egg and the celery and mayonnaise and all. It was so fucking good, I think it took all of three bites to eat.” 

Clint watches as he does that thing Steve does, steps into the smokey-sundrip world, a million years away. Swaying to the static of a record long forgotten 

“Anyway,” Bucky says, “Anyway. Later, Ma came down and she looked around and she got this weird look on her face. She never said anything, but Becca and I went into the kitchen and found there was another sandwich. Peanut Butter.” He gives a jerk that might be a shrug. “My ma’, she had a peanut allergy. So she’d made the tuna for herself. She’d traded a lot to get the peanut butter and tuna.” 

He’s stopped stirring. And Clint steps behind him, wraps his arms around his waist and presses his face between Bucky’s shoulders. 

“I don’t think Ma ever figured out that we figured it out. She never wanted us to feel bad about anything, but she’d gone and done something special, and we ate hers, and we didn’t even-” Bucky cuts himself off. 

“I don’t think she minded too terribly, Buck,” Clint whispers. 

“I minded,” Bucky hisses. He breaks away from the embrace and storms off, leaving Clint with a whole kitchen of food to plate up.

-

Bucky makes himself scarce for a long time after that. Tony tells Clint that Bucky’s taken to asking for meals that are mostly just rice to be dropped off at his room.

Steve corners Clint and he’s angry. “What did you do, Barton?” 

“Nothing, Cap!” He answers cheerfully. 

“You went, and you prodded, and you rebroke him,” Steve says. “You and Tony just had to go stickin’ your nose places-”  
Clint cuts him off. “Careful, Cap, pot and kettle. ‘Cause if you thought you could fix a thing, wouldn’t you do absolutely anything to try?” 

Steve opens his mouth, but then he shuts it. “You should make him something sweet. Bucky always had the worst sweet tooth. I used to sneak him packets of sugar, just straight sugar, when I’d made him particularly angry.” 

Clint nods.

-

He takes Steve’s advice. He drafts Rhodey to help, because he’s sulked enough in the vents to know which of Tower inhabitant can _ frost _, but he promises to take the secret to his grave.

As far as cakes go, it’s not the ugliest thing Clint’s ever seen. 

“Why does it lean so much, Barton?” Rhodey asks. He’s truly horrified. Clint is almost offended. 

“Dunno man, can you frost it?’ 

Rhodey stares at the ceiling and he’s not praying, but that’s not Clint’s problem. It’s Tony’s. “Yeah, I can. What are you using?” 

Clint hands him a tub of fudge frosting he made himself. “At least this is smooth?” 

Rhodey wrinkles his nose. “Fudge frosting on a caramel cake?” 

“Trust me Rhodester,” Clint says, and leaves him to it. 

Later, he takes a huge slice of cake, two forks, and some coke up to Bucky’s room. He doesn’t knock, but he does thank Tony for rigging this, as he glides right past the security measures. 

Well, most of them, save the knife that knicks his ear. “_Ow_,” Clint says. “But also, I knew you had to be faking how awful you were.” 

“The fuck are you doin’ in here Barton?” Bucky asks. 

“I was gonna drop down from the vents, but uh,” he holds his hands up, and Bucky’s eyes narrow. His beard twitches so it’s not all bad. 

Clint shoves Bucky with his knees until there’s room for him on Bucky’s tiny bed. “I got the impression all of Tony’s rooms had oversized beds.” 

“Special request,” Bucky says. “Seemed a waste otherwise.” 

He holds a hand out and Clint hands over a can of coke. Bucky narrows his eyes. “Cake.” He demands. “Steve and I are gonna need to have a real nice chat about him tellin’ you all my secrets.” 

Clint says, “He’s got his reasons.” 

Bucky grunts at him, and takes a bite of the cake. 

Clint hasn’t even kissed the guy yet, but he now knows what Bucky’s “o” face looks like. “Good?” He asks, just to be an ass.

“You’re not off the hook yet,” Bucky grumbles. But he actually moves over enough for Clint to squeeze himself beside him and take the other fork. The cake really is good. One of Clint’s best, even if it’s fuckin’ ugly. 

“So.” Bucky says around a mouthful of icing. 

“So,” Clint parrots because he enjoys making assassins angry. 

“What are you tryin’ to fix, here,” he lifts the plate of cake. “With this peace offering.” 

Clint still stares blankly.

“What has made you bring the kind of peace offering that’d stop World War 3.” 

“What ever has made you avoid me for the last few weeks,” Clint says. He holds Bucky’s stare, watches the blush creep up his neck. 

Bucky takes a huge bite of cake, one that takes him a few moments to chew. “Vulnerability,” he grunts.

Clint continues to stare at him. 

“Fuck, Barton. _ Vulnerability._ I don’t like it,” Bucky growls. “And then you come crashin’ in with your food and your _ savor the flavor _ and makin’ me confess and all.”

Clint tilts his head, takes a sip of his own coke. “Sounds real dumb to me,” he finally tells Bucky. 

“What the fuck do you mean by that?” Bucky demands. 

“Just sayin’, you’ve found someone who isn’t Steve, your best friend, that you trust enough to tell these kinda things too, and instead of exploring that. You run,” Clint sets his coke on the floor and picks at his nails. “Figured a soldier would be braver than that, even some brainwashed Nazi monkey.” 

“I really don’t think you’re supposed to mock something that serious,” Bucky deadpans.

“Your beard twitched,” Clint tells him. He takes Bucky’s plate, and his can, and sets them on the floor. “Now monkey boy, you got options. You can kick me out and go back to sneakin’ meals in at 3 am, or you can kiss me, and we can see where this goes.” 

Bucky eyes him for a long time, and then he says, “Can I smoke first?”

Clint huffs, because he really doesn’t know what to do with that so he says, “Balcony’s pretty far and I don’t know if Tony really wants you smokin’ in here.” 

Bucky gives him a sly smile. “You’re not the only one that gets special favors from Tinkerton, Barton.” 

Clint says, “I gotta start hanging out here more often.” 

They share half a packet, disgustingly cheap menthols, and then Bucky says, “So. You against kissin’ someone with ash-breath?” 

Clint snorts. He moves so his knees are on either side of Bucky’s. “You need a bigger bed if this is going to become a regular thing.”

“Who says it is? Hasn’t even become a _ thing _ thing yet.” 

Clint fixes that easily, by taking Bucky’s jaw in his hands, fingers scraping over the beard, and then he leans down and kisses Bucky. Strangely enough, menthol, fudge, coke, and caramel isn’t the worst combination and somewhere in the back of his head, he’s already adding mint to his icing recipe. Bucky fits both hands around Clint’s ass and his brain files away the plans for another day.

-

Later, when Clint is sweaty on top of Bucky, tracing plans into the scars on his left shoulder, Bucky says, “I think we can make this a regular thing.” 

Clint tells him, “I wasn’t planning on letting you say otherwise.” The he slaps gently at Bucky’s hips. “C’mon. I’m hungry.” 

“You got energy to cook after all of that?” Bucky asks, surprised. 

“Fuck no,” Clint tells him. “But I know a diner who claims their burgers are as good as they were in the 50’s and Steve refuses to give me an honest opinion.” 

Bucky narrows his eyes. 

“My treat, Broodsters. You can even get the big boy burger, and I’ll spring for the second patty.” 

Bucky smiles at him, a full thing that splits his beard and Clint thinks, _ score one for the Amazing Hawkeye. _


End file.
